


that's not what it sounded like

by typingcat



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Din Djarin Removes the Helmet, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Jedi Reader (Star Wars), Oral Sex, Reader-Insert, Sexy Times, Smut, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, Vaginal Sex, din djarin fucks, din djarin fucks YOU, female receiving, get it sis, no beta we die like men, not to kinkshame anyone, that sounds bad i know, we're all out here thirsting for pp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:26:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/typingcat/pseuds/typingcat
Summary: a mandalorian and a jedi, not only traveling together, but both shaping the formative experiences of a small youngling? it's more likely than you'd think. we stan a slow burn smutfic. enjoy, you horny bastards.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, Mando/reader, Mando/you
Comments: 20
Kudos: 223





	that's not what it sounded like

**Author's Note:**

> baby's first smutfic, y'all! we all want pedro to fuck our brains out, okay? this is just another story to add to the thirsty bitch club. now, please, before you come for me with flaming pitchforks about the authenticity of a jedi going to bonetown, know i tried to address it as best i could but this idea would not leave me the fuck aLONE. where all my queermos at? the theme of this story might resonate with you (but obviously i hope you're feeling more peace with your sexuality and all that love and good energy is being sent your way).
> 
> honestly writing this was so exhilarating but also so exhausting. i feel like i just came words all over the place, you know what i mean, ladies??? enbies??? fellas???
> 
> also can i just say that i feel like no droids has a freaking trademark on the phrase 'sweet girl' but it just fits din so perfectly i had to throw it in here at least once. so there you have it. din djarin thinks your body and your mind is sweet as hell, you beautiful fucking thing. now go get some.

When the two of you meet, neither countenance is revealed. Yours is tucked away behind the hood attached to a thick, black cloak. His, concealed underneath the heavy beskar that obscures any semblance of humanity existing underneath it.

He’s been looking for a mentor for his Child. And you heed his call.

Initially, this was supposed to be an arrangement with limited visitations. You were supposed to take Grogu on your own, and the Mandalorian would be reduced to a clan of one. But he’d feared having to give up his son for good, and you, forced into a nomadic lifestyle to avoid being detected by imperial sympathizers, had no stable location to use as your living quarters, your classroom, your home.

You barely know him, but already you detect the Mandalorian is a man of few words. So when he offers you a space on the _Razor_ _Crest_ in exchange for your mentorship, you’re...taken aback. A Mandalorian and a Jedi, not only traveling together, but both shaping the formative experiences of a small youngling?

Stranger things have happened in the wide depths of the universe, you rationalize. It doesn’t hold much substance but it’s the only argument you’ve got as you shake his hand, agreeing to the most bizarre proposition you’ve ever been afforded.

He watches you teach him sometimes. And you watch him watch you.

The rudimentary lessons include tasks the Child had done before. His most notable achievement is securing a small chrome sphere from the Mandalorian’s hand, concentrating so deeply, that its pulled from his gloved grip and is in turn held within Grogu’s three small green fingers.

When Mando acknowledged the triumph with an emphatic “great job, kid!” coming through the helmet’s modulator, your knees go weak. And your heart feels as though it’s going to both break from and collapse within its bony cage in your chest. And — oh — shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

You’ve given up any semblance of a typical life for the Force. You are a mentor second, but a Jedi first. Forget a long-standing commitment like marriage — you’re not even supposed to experience even fleeting lust. It goes against the Order, everything you’ve ever stood for. You can’t go squandering all you’ve ever known for a man whose face you wouldn’t recognize, had you been standing shoulder to shoulder in a crowded cantina.

And naturally, as does anything that one tries to repress, your thoughts bubble up every so often. Usually it’s when you’re alone in the bunk — Mando only has one cot, so the two of you have agreed to sleep in shifts — and it’s dark, and the only sounds that can be heard are the low hum of the old equipment that keeps the _Crest_ running in the first place. And you’re alone and your curiosity is getting the better of you, because your hands are ghosting over the waistband of your trousers. And when your fingers meet against the hot space between your thighs, you’re shocked and embarrassed and surprised at how fucking wet you are from just hearing his voice as it exists in your head.

It’s all too much for you to even think about. Nothing makes sense in this dark, cramped space, outside of your want. And you don’t know where to go with it. What to do with it.

You’re debating ejecting yourself from the ship’s airlock because surely floating around space without any sustainable air supply is a better alternative than laying on this sorry excuse for a bed, wondering how you’ll possibly be able to ever look Mando in the face again (except, you won’t, given his is sufficiently concealed).

Eventually, you try to stop pushing down your feelings for the masked stranger you call your pilot. You’d never voice them out loud, because that’s far worse than simply accepting that they’re there, but you have to try something else. Because pretending they don’t exist feels more difficult than single handedly taking down the Empire. It makes your head spin, your skin crawl, your heart race. You’re jumpy when he says your name, even in question, as if to check that you’re still sharing the same plane of existence (you’re fairly certain, considering recent revelations, that you no longer do).

So now you’ve come to merely acknowledge it: you, the teacher, are helplessly crushing on your student’s dad. And you can’t do shit about it, and that’s the way it has to be. You’ve accepted your truth. So from there, you can let it go.

Focusing on the Child brings you peace. It takes you out of the troubling headspace that is your growing lustful attachment, allows you space to clear your head of such thoughts (which is essential, because if the baby could ever sense those in particular, he’d, without question, be scarred for the rest of his indefinite life).

Sometimes, Mando plants his ship in an indiscriminate corner of the universe; somewhere quiet and open and safe so that the three of you can stretch your legs. And when he does that, you, quite literally, have more space to focus on your work. There’s more room for the Child to move about, test his limits. You cheer on every success, troubleshoot every area of need, explaining one strategy differently until it finally clicks — and those are the wins you celebrate the loudest. Mando is off a few feet away, watching on. You can tell by the way his helmet remains unmoving, fixed on you; even if he turns to scan the area to ensure there are no unwanted visitors about to intrude on your teaching, he always brings his focus back to you and his son.

Grogu is settled nicely into his pram after a particularly trying session of teaching — Mando was right, he is stubborn — and instead of remaining alone in the bunk like you might normally do, you venture back into the cockpit, sitting copilot as Mando switches the _Crest_ into auto-drive.

“You’re good,” he starts through his modulator, and — damn it, just the compliment alone is enough to bring a wave of excitement into your belly. Your hood is draped carefully around your shoulders, and if it wasn’t so obvious of a gesture, you’d pull it up over your head to hide the growing flush of red you can feel sprawling across your cheeks.

When you say nothing, he elaborates. “With him, with the kid. You’re good with him. Have a hell of a lot more patience than I ever would.” You don’t often hear Mando laugh, but when he chuckles, it’s damn near impossible to keep yourself from a smile that reaches your eyes, lightly laughing along with him.

“All part of the job,” you reply. “He’s an honor to teach.”

It takes you a few minutes, but you realize something in the air is changed. You can’t be sure, of course, since the damn helmet blocks any evidence of his facial expressions, but a part of you is certain he’s stopped smiling.

“Are you —“ he starts out, abruptly ending the question in a way that surprises you. Mando doesn’t _do_ nervous. But the way the phrase is cut off so quickly, as if he’s forgotten the rest of what he’s trying to say, and has you curious for what it could possibly be. “Are you unhappy here? You don’t have to stay if there’s somewhere else you’d rather be. He’d go with you. He trusts you.”

Your eyes widen a bit at the question. Is he trying to kick you out? A pang of hurt runs through your heart as you ask, “where is this coming from?”

“You seem like you don't want to be here,” he answers, and this time he swivels his chair to study your face. You’re certain he can detect the rising heat that now threatens to brush across the tips of your ears, and it’s then you realize — the moments you’ve spent locked away in the bunk, the space you’ve given yourself to avoid furthering your _want_ for this man — has been mistaken for unhappiness. Resentment, even. The irony of it all stuns you, considering the reality couldn’t be further from his inclination.

You tell him no, of course, even though he probably doesn’t quite believe you. And when you’re alone in the bunk that night for your shift, you don’t sleep a wink. Instead, you touch yourself, your fingers grazing across your wet cunt, eventually rubbing circles into your clit in a way that makes you positively _ache_ because all you can do is imagine that your fingers are his, strong yet gentle, teasing pleasure from you in the most excruciating way possible.

It’s only moments after you’ve orgasmed that you realize how heavy your breathing is, and how maybe, _maybe_ , a soft moan or two had escaped from the back of your throat. You honestly can’t remember. You’d been so caught up in the fantasy of what his touch might feel like that reality merely dissipated in the darkness surrounding you.

You’re torn, because as much as you know your desire is wrong, you also don’t have the strength to further stop it. It crashes over you like ocean waves, and each time you’ve collected your bearings enough to stand again, it hits you harder, pulling you in deeper. Acknowledging it is not enough without acting on it, but you _can’t_ act on it, and so you fear you’re doomed to remain in this weird sexy limbo of longing.

Gradually, you come to wonder if the real strength is in accepting the harsh, uncomfortable reality of your feelings for him. It goes against everything you’ve ever been taught. But could it truly be that bad if it feels so pleasurable? People get married and have children all the time, and their lives don’t seem to be negatively impacted in any way (and if they are, it’s more due to their choice in partner and less the act of union itself). You endure in this sort of sexual awakening, fucking yourself when you’ve got time alone, endlessly thinking of him. 

He stops you one evening, before you’re heading down the ladder, planning to retreat towards the bunk. His gloved hand is secured around your wrist, and he says your name in a kind of desperation that makes you swallow the lump of air that’s collected in your throat.

He flips a switch on the gear panel, and the cockpit goes dark. Not even the stars that dot the velvet sky outside are enough to illuminate the small room you share with him. The air is thick with tension and his grip is still secured around your wrist, and a few slow moments pass you by before you realize you still haven’t _said_ _anything_ in response. You’re not even looking at him yet, eyes locked on the door of the cockpit, knowing you should walk through it but finding you no longer have the strength to leave, as you normally do.

It’s only when you turn to face him that he begins to pull you gently back towards him. You can’t hear his breathing through the helmet, you can’t even see the rise and fall of his chest but somehow you _know_ it’s just as desperate as your own. The only sensation you have right now is his one hand on your wrist, and the other seemingly holding you in place, resting against your hip.

“Mando?” Your voice is unrecognizably soft. You’re used to speaking so clearly, so confidently, in front of Grogu. It’s sort of your _mentor voice_ . _This_ , this mousy sound of unknown origins — it’s not you. _None_ of this is you, except, it wholeheartedly, regretfully, quite simply, _is_.

“You haven’t been sleeping well,” he says finally, which is a grave misunderstanding. You’ve been sleeping _fabulously_ , taking care of yourself in the deep thoughts of your lust, resting only when you’re adequately spent after having imaged Mando kissing your thighs or cupping your breasts.

“That’s not —”

“I _know_ , because I _hear_ you.”

Your stomach drops. You wish the floor of the _Crest_ would open up, dropping you into a black hole and letting you exist there for the rest of time. Or, you know, _not_ exist, that’d be preferable, especially in comparison to standing right in front of the Mandalorian with cheeks burning red and your heart thumping so loudly, there’s no way he _couldn’t_ hear it.

“Mando,” you repeat his name, but this time it’s laced with embarrassment. “I — that’s not what it —”

You have no idea how to possibly finish your sentence. _That’s not what it sounded like?_ It’s quite literally, _exactly_ what it sounded like. Your moans of pleasure, no matter how quiet, are still undeniably _moans_ _of_ _pleasure_. There even might have been an occasion or two during which his name spilled from your lips, desperately aching to be touched by his.

Your body is pressed against the firm planes of his armor, but not due to his own behavior. No, _you_ placed yourself against him, moving closer after his hand had rested against the soft flesh of your hip. He takes it as a sign to continue, saying your name again, clearing his throat. His voice sounds almost desperate through the modulator. “If there’s any part of you that doesn’t want this, please...you have to tell me.”

Oh for _heaven’s sake_ . He’s not making this easy for you is he? For _months_ you’ve been dealing with the part of you that doesn’t want it. Or the part of you that doesn’t _allow_ you to want it. Because, as you’ve determined many times over, you obviously, unfortunately, very much _do_.

Your hands skim over the beskar of his chest plates, using them as a reference point as you trail your touch upwards to find his collarbone. Your index and middle fingers brush along the sharp angles of his helmet, and then you know you’ve gone too far. You need that middle ground, the only part of humanity you know is visible as you pull down the black fabric of his thick neckline, kissing the heated skin behind it. 

You hear him gasp as your lips ghost along his neck, only pressing further when you realize it’s already _happened_. You’ve done it, you’ve given into the temptation of him, the longing you’ve felt for so long, and now you might as well revel in it.

Light kissing turns into something thicker, heavier — nipping, sucking at the flesh as you _melt_ into the embrace he’s affording you, and when he sighs your name, it sounds like heaven existing in your ears. Then, it happens so suddenly: his hands grip at the backs of your thighs, pulling you up into a strong hold against him, so he can carry and place you down into the pilot’s seat. It smells of leather and sweat and _him_ and you think your heart might explode from the overwhelming sensation, the sudden change in _both_ your affects as clear as day.

Your cloak’s been discarded into a messy heap on the floor. Even though you’ve imagined Mando’s removed his armor countless times, in the dark, his much more clumsy. He curses when he can’t find the right latch or the correct fastening, and your hands travel in the dark to help him. At one point he nearly headbutts you with his helmet, and you yelp in shock and he apologizes profusely and then you’re just _laughing_ . The entire situation is ridiculous: you’re about to sleep with not just anyone, but a fucking _Mandalorian_ , the sworn enemy of your own Order. In what universe does _any_ of what’s about to transpire make _any sense?_

“What’s so — what’s so funny?” You hear him ask, but there’s an unusual tone to his voice that makes it almost unrecognizable. It’s normal. _Unmodulated_.

“Your helmet,” you don’t address his question, attention now fixed on the more pressing matter. He must have removed it with the rest of his armor, now resting on the floor with your cloak. He doesn’t answer right away, not with words. Instead, his hands find the waistline of your pants, making quick work as he pulls them down with your panties tucked inside of them, too. His hands hold your hips and you can _tell_ he’s approaching your core; you can feel the breath exit his nose as he takes in your glorious scent.

“Take off your gloves,” you command, before he has the opportunity to taste you, and he grunts in protest but does so, because moments later you feel his fingers pressing into the fleshy skin at either side, and that alone almost feels like heaven.

He wastes no time in tasting you.

It’s shocking, honestly. Like electricity coursing through every nerve of your body, sensitive and suddenly awakened by his mouth, tongue flattening out on the sensitive nub between your folds. Your back arches as your head falls backwards, pushing yourself further towards him so he can better explore your body. You’re so fucking _wet_ , and you knew it’d come on the moment he called out for you, dragging you back to him while you were so certain you needed to simply _leave_ . And now, with the Mandalorian feasting upon you, rubbing mindless patterns into your cunt, you surely don’t want to _be_ anywhere else.

His fingers trail to your inner thighs, pressing them further apart so he can better access you. You moan in pleasing ache, breath becoming heavy. 

“M-Mando, oh, _shit_ , — Mando —” you say his name in utter protest as his lips remove their pressure on your body, because _how dare he deny you such a sensation_ , but it only last a brief number of sections so he can breathe helplessly against you, “fuck, baby, you taste so good.”

Your heart is racing. The heat spills down your spine and back up every time he fucks you along with his tongue. He licks his finger, removing it from the suction of his lips with a barely audible _pop_ before entering your slit, stretching your walls in a way you’ve only dreamed about before you fall asleep at night. There’s no sense in holding back now. His name falls from your lips as he pushes a second digit into you and replaces his tongue against your clit. He finger fucks you, slow at first, gradually picking up speed. His attention to your body only causes you to twitch underneath him, while the searing pleasure builds at your center. Your hands take hold in the soft hair of his scalp, and you wonder idly what color it is, what it looks like. Contemplation soon becomes secondary, though, as he keeps fucking you, building your heat, your pressure.

“Fuck, Mando, don’t — don’t —”

He doesn’t.

He continues to devour you, breaking sighs and moans through your hungry lips. There is no agonizing over the validity of your desire or what to do about it. There is only him, eating you out, fucking you with one hand while the other trails up your shirt to grasp hold of the soft skin of your breast. Your hips push into him, his tongue further against you, until something inside of you pulls taut and eventually _snaps_. You feel as though you’re seeing stars. You would be, had the cockpit not be shrouded by the darkness. The tingling in your toes, the desperate rise and fall of your chest, the ragged way you say his name.

He rises after a few slow, lazy strokes of your clit with his tongue, fingers just as slowly retreating from inside you. Your slick is dripping from his chin, or at least you imagine it is, because when he leans in to kiss you, all you can taste is yourself. His tongue presses against the lines of your lips and soon enough you’ve fallen into a messy kiss of tongues and lust and _want_ and you can’t help yourself from pulling him into your lap. 

He breaks away for a moment to lick your fluids from his fingers. His breathing is heavy, and it’s only then you realize — with the exception of your bottom half, of course, you’re both fully _clothed_ . You can’t imagine _you’re_ the only one who wants that to change.   
  
His hand runs through your hair, nipping your bottom lip. This time, you feel something scratch against your cheek as he pulls away. The Mandalorian has facial hair. Maybe you hadn’t it noticed earlier, the throes of passion blurring your ability to sense anything outside of the hot pleasure he served between your hips, but now, you’re certain of it. You wonder what it looks like on him. Is he as handsome, as agonizingly sexy, as he sounds?

“Take this off,” you rasp, tugging at the thick cumberband circumlining his body. Again, his hands are under you — this time, fingers meeting the hot flesh of your bare ass — and suddenly you’re sitting on top of his lap, knees splayed on either side of his thighs.  
  
“I want you to do it,” he breathes in your ear.

And you do. You remove his cumberband, his shirt. He kicks off his boots, his trousers. He pulls your shirt from overhead. He nearly tears your bra from your shoulders, tossing everything into the growing pile of unwanted coverings until you’re both bare, vulnerable, underneath the eye of the other.

You can’t see him, but you can feel him. You can feel the edges of his body, the hair dusting across his chest. Your hands fasten around the back of his neck as you kiss him, catching his lower lip between your teeth, positioning your heat over his strained length so he can serve your body again.

The head of his cock teases at your fluttering entrance, ready to take him in. All of him. He murmurs your name, strong hands slowly running up and down the sides of your body. “If this is — if this is too much, we can st—”

“No,” you say definitively, finally recognizing the confidence that usually lives in your tone. “Mando, I want—”

“It’s Din.”

“What?”

“My name. It’s Din.”

“... _Oh_.”

It’s lovely. It fits him so perfectly, simple and effortless, harsh at the start but soft at the finish. Much like getting to know him, you notice. He’d been...colder, at first. Less engaged, less interested. But this man, this warm body complementing your own heat in a way that makes you want to _melt?_ He’s not at all who you remember first meeting.

“Don’t use it with anyone else, in front of anyone,” he instructs you firmly. “Only with me.”

“Only with you,” you echo.

When he fills you, it’s only then you realize he hits parts of you that had been _aching_ to be touched. You thrust into him and he matches your movements, his thumbs running along your pebbled nipples. Your back arches and when one of his thick palms meets your throat, fingers gripping along the sides of your neck, you feel like you might _literally die_ underneath his touch. He fucks you like your pleasure is the only thing that matters. He fucks you like his body will break if he doesn’t keep at it.

“Din,” his name sounds so sweet, falling from your lips. “Din, Din, Din, _Din_ —”

“Fuck,” he chokes out, your name sounding just as sweet as he says yours back to you. “That’s my girl. That’s my sweet fucking girl. You’re so — _pretty_ , so god damned pretty, baby. Keep fucking me. _Keep fucking me_.”

You do as you’re told, riding against his length for a bit longer until he moves you _again_. His cock slips out from you, and this time, you growl in protest. “What are you — stop, seriously? I was so —”

“Shush,” he commands hoarsely, and his fingers cover your mouth as he lays you on the floor. You dart your tongue out to taste the flesh of his fingers, salty, the lingering flavor of _you_ still remaining. When he releases his hand, he enters you again with ease, and he comments on your thorough arousal. “You’re wet, baby. So _fucking wet_ . And it’s all for me? All — for,” — he thrusts with each of the three words, hitting you beautifully two times, then once more — “ _me?_ ”

“ _Yes_ ,” you wail back, though you’re not sure if you were supposed to.

He hovers over you, grunting with each push that is met with your cries of satisfaction. It feels as though your body is actually _sobbing_ for him, wanting him to touch the spaces within you that will offer you release while simultaneously never, ever stopping. One of his hands finds its way to the pink nub at the top of your center, and he strokes circles into it, causing you to quake in your skin. Your cries become more and more desperate, strained, and he can sense what’s coming before even you do. When he growls your name, your eyes look up in an attempt to meet him, but of course, in this darkness, nothing is reflected back at you.

“I want you to come for me,” he orders, and you know in that instant that you absolutely will. The buildup is too dire, the sensation painstakingly soaring through your body that it might cause you to actually collapse from underneath him.

“Yes, _yes_ ,” You repeat, wondering if that and ‘Din’ are the only sounds you’re capable of making, writhing underneath him.

He hits you in a spot that causes you to cry out in anguish, his name vibrating off your lips almost unrecognizably. You hear him chuckle as you meet your second climax, “that’s right, baby. Just like that, just for me. I’m going to keep going, okay? I want to finish — I want _you_ to make me come, sweet girl.”

“I want you to come,” you whine. “I want you to — _please_ , Din, come inside me, come ins—”

He does, and you know it by the way his cock begins to twitch between his last few thrusts, hitting spots within you that are already overwhelmed by sensation, but you don’t care. Your name tears from the back of Din’s throat in a way that sounds so foreign but so damn _sexy_. His fingers slow and eventually stop rubbing against your clit so he can focus on catching his breath, and he stays inside of you for a few more sweet moments, heavily breathing, another chuckle falling from lips that you imagine are curved upwards and beautiful. 

When he withdraws from you, you nearly protest. But there’s nothing more to protest now, is there? You’ve both met your edge — you, _twice_ . Both of your bare backs are against the cold metal, a sweet reprieve to the heat that’s trailed down your spines. You’re sticky with sweat and sex and the air is thick and hot around you, and nothing matters other than the Mandalorian, and the floor of the _Crest_ , and the evidence of your pleasure dripping between your legs.

“Fuck, Mand — _Din_ ,” you finally rasp. “That was…”

You don’t have words. Neither does he, because he says nothing. Instead, his fingers search for yours in the dark before he pushes himself up with his other hand, bending to capture your lips underneath his.

You could get used to this.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! if you liked it feel free to drop a comment or ❤️. hope you feel adequately serviced! ;)


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